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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24132631">but i've been watching you</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluffifullness/pseuds/Fluffifullness'>Fluffifullness</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(kind of?), Coming Out, Deadlights (IT), Fix-It, Implied Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Time Travel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:02:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,563</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24132631</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluffifullness/pseuds/Fluffifullness</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“And tell him <i>what, </i>Bev? ‘By the way, Eduardo, the monster clown we killed in Derry accidentally told me you’d either die or wind up snogging me, which do <i>you</i> think is worse?’”</p>
<p>Richie sees a lot of things in the Deadlights, not all of them bad. It takes Eddie a little longer to reconcile those futures with his own feelings.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>346</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>||My favorite fics||</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>but i've been watching you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for the "time travel" prompt on my <a href="https://fluffifullness.dreamwidth.org/1032.html">trope bingo card</a>, although admittedly it's a bit of a stretch! The title (and a later reference ;) is from "Any Way That You Want Me," which has been covered by a few artists but was definitely done best by The Troggs. In my humble opinion.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The way Beverly described it, Richie always assumed that getting caught in the Deadlights was like looking through a window or watching a movie. Like dreaming, but easier to remember when you woke up from it. But unless you count those gimmicky 4-D theaters where the seats shake and you get sprayed in the face with water, the thing about dreams and movies is that they aren’t supposed to </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span> like anything; your body stays where it is and your mind goes somewhere else. The Deadlights make Richie’s body </span>
  <em>
    <span>forget</span>
  </em>
  <span> where it was, smooth stone in hand, feet firmly planted on uneven ground.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His mind goes, and his body follows.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s dark here, too, the only light a flickering white that casts long shadows everywhere it hits. Richie’s feet are bare beneath a pristine fleece blanket. It’s a little too warm for his liking, so he moves one foot to tuck it into the cool fabric between the couch arm and cushion. The movement jostles a plastic mixing bowl enough to rattle the popcorn kernels sitting at the bottom.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Careful,” Eddie chides. “Spill that and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>will </span>
  </em>
  <span>make you vacuum it up before Bacon gets to it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A soft huff of protest cuts Richie’s answer short and interrupts the muted horror movie score drifting down from the TV mounted on the wall in front of them. Richie makes accidental eye contact with the dog that produced it – a big, fluffy thing with a slightly scarred snout and wide, imploring eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aw, who could resist that look,” he coos, freeing a hand to reach down and give it a scratch behind a triangle ear. Its tail wags briefly before it lowers its head back to the blanket, satisfied that he’s not about to get up, after all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie snorts. His attempt to sit up is seriously hampered by the Richie-sized weight on his chest, but he still manages to relocate the empty bowl to the coffee table. Richie lets out a plaintive sigh of his own. Rather than bury his fingers back in Richie’s hair, Eddie responds with a kiss that doesn’t quite make it as far down as Richie’s forehead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pauses with his lips still ghosting over the tips of Richie’s hair; Richie feels distinctly like a cat having its whiskers played with. “Did you steal my shampoo again?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie tilts his head back to grin at him. “Gotta take care of what’s left of this,” he says. He can almost smell it, too, an unfamiliar floral scent that could be the lingering traces of a good lather-and-rinse.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie rolls his eyes and steals another kiss – to Richie’s forehead, this time, so he gets to feel the tickle of Eddie’s neatly trimmed beard. Richie can’t decide if it’s that or something else that makes him look more filled-out, healthier and happier than he did… not a moment ago. Months. A year, maybe. “You’ve got plenty left. You just </span>
  <em>
    <span>also </span>
  </em>
  <span>have plenty of forehead.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s a Trashmouth trademark. Gotta keep it nice ‘n clean.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tell me you’re not using Aveda hair products on your face,” Eddie laments. “They have special soaps for that, Richie. I’ll fucking buy you one.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The TV belts out an impressively shrill scream right as Bacon makes another sleepy </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘can’t you two shut up and pay attention’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>noise.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wouldn’t smell like you then,” Richie says without knowing how he knows that, or how it comes out so easily.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie’s hands are warm on his face. Butter-soft. “I love you,” he says. It isn’t the first time he’s said it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It isn’t the first time it’s made Richie cry, either. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The tears are warmer than the blood on his face, the dampness seeping into his back and the sweat beading along his forehead. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Richie…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everything is green again, and red, and either he falls through the floor or Eddie is dragged upward like a puppet on a string, limp and silent until he hits the ground and tumbles out of sight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before Richie can get his legs back under him, Eddie is on top of him again, like he was never gone, and all Richie can see is stars. By the time he blinks them away, Eddie is already hauling him to his feet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The ground splits less than a yard from them; the sharp end of a curved talon becomes a blunt mass of flesh that leaves a spiderweb crater in its wake. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Holy </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eddie yells. “That was fucking close… Richie? Are you”—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay?” a guy Richie’s never seen before finishes a sentence Richie doesn’t remember hearing. “Rich?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure, Stan,” he hears himself say. Even to himself he sounds strange, exhausted, hollowed-out. “Yeah. I’d call you during the flight, too, but in-flight WiFi’s so expensive these days. And it’d probably freak the other passengers out if I started crying halfway through a free screening of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Zootopia.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stanley rolls his eyes. He’s changed as much as any of them, Richie thinks. Hair’s a little darker, and Richie’s not the only one who needs glasses anymore. But he still looks like Stan, sort of, and that makes the gut-punch of flashing straight to Eddie, exasperated, mid-laugh, then pale, slack-faced, that much more intense.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s no way Stan doesn’t notice, but he’s kind enough not to look any more worried than he already did.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie folds himself into the driver’s seat of his rental. Takes a seat on a plane, LA-bound, his mouth thick with the bitter aftertaste of a few cheap airport cocktails. He closes his eyes, the better to enjoy the buzz and discourage conversation, but of course when he opens them someone is already mid-sentence, voice slurring, too drunk – too high on painkillers to –</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“…get outta New York. Er, no, jus’… outta my marriage, fer starters,” Eddie informs him. He’s got the biggest, dopiest grin on his face, like he’s looking at a litter of puppies and not a filthy, scared middle-aged guy hunched over a hospital bed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie feels himself say Eddie’s name and for once isn’t sure if it’s his future self saying it or just </span>
  <em>
    <span>him, </span>
  </em>
  <span>disoriented and confused and desperate for something to hold on to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s holding Eddie’s hand. That’s something. There are tubes connected to it and it’s cold enough to make Richie’s heart beat faster, but Eddie smiles more at the way Richie very gently strokes the length of skin between his thumb and pointer finger, and that helps. Makes him look alive under all those bandages.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can help,” Richie says. “I want – if you want me around.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wanna keep you too,” Eddie says. His eyes are starting to slip shut again, but it doesn’t scare Richie as much this time; he can hear his heart beating steady through the monitor, after all. “Wanna… steal you from your tour. Shouldn’a ever got married, Rich…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie gives Eddie’s hand the tiniest squeeze and swallows the lump in his throat. “Well, I won’t hold it against you if you change your mind when you wake up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie makes a short little noise that might be a laugh. “Not the kinda thing you change your mind about just ‘cause of a few drugs…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie’s back hits hard ground and his mouth closes so fast that the clack of his teeth could have been the crack of a chair tipping backward onto linoleum. He only knows it isn’t because the beeping and humming of the hospital are gone too, and Eddie’s voice isn’t low and raspy but loud, grounding, thrilled. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think I did it,” he’s saying. “I think I killed it for real!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Gotta get him out of the way,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Richie thinks sluggishly, and then he opens his mouth and tastes blood. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Just like that, Richie cycles through dozens of moments. He’s sitting at a long table in a courtroom trying not to look too closely at photographs of a bloodied axe. He’s crying in the quarry surrounded by only four of his closest friends. He’s on stage, his stomach swooping, a kind of stage fright he didn’t even feel after Mike’s call, but it’s – it’s good. The spotlight makes it hard to make out faces in the crowd, but he knows his friends are there, watching him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s watching Eddie emerge from their shared bathroom wearing nothing but a towel and a sly grin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You seriously wanna make me climb right back in there?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie makes </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eddie can see his eyes track the slow downward path of a bead of water, from his still-damp hair to the challenging jut of his chin. His scarred chest, unfair six-pack, dark hair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not unless I’m invited.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie’s lips and shoulders are so warm it’s a wonder the lingering water doesn’t evaporate right off of them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie is watching Ben and Bev slow dancing on their wedding night. And again, this time giddy in Eddie’s arms. A first kiss. Barely-stifled laughter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And another. One he runs from. One Eddie runs from. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s gagging into a toilet while someone rubs slow circles against his back. He’s crying into someone’s shoulder. He’s bleeding. He’s carving two initials into a small-town bridge. He’s saying “loved” in the past tense and feeling it in the present.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s in the cistern, suspended in contact with nothing, vision whited over. It hurts, but there’s a disconnect that makes it hard to define what hurts and how much.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he hits the ground and sees green, deep shadows and Eddie’s triumphant face, he summons every last ounce of strength he can to pull him flush against his chest. He can’t even roll them to put himself between Eddie and the screaming, bleeding monster in front of him; a tickle somewhere in the back of his mind that wants him to surrender again to that disconnected autopilot reminds him that he’s felt the consequences of that action, anyway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He still feels… floaty, like he’s just woken up from anesthesia. The next time he manages to get his eyes open, he’s being held upright, slumped halfway over Eddie’s shoulder, and he throws up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He probably throws up </span>
  <em>
    <span>on </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eddie. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bad, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks, and tries to feel for wounds. A severed arm, a gaping hole.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Richie?” Eddie says, too loud, and Richie thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>No no no.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mmmgh,” he manages. Feels like he hasn’t spoken in days. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“M-Mikey, what do we do?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know – it wasn’t like this with Bev!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well, at least they aren’t talking about Eddie. Eddie’s busy swearing in frustration, losing his grip on Richie, half-dropping, half-guiding him to the ground. Same spot he’s seen Eddie in a handful of times already, almost. Little higher up. Another pair of hands appears at Richie’s side; he turns and sees Bev exchanging a look with Eddie. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie coughs experimentally. No blood works its way up his throat; he figures that’s a good sign.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You guys see that thing out there?” he tries. It’s only a little slurred, so he throws in an exhausted grin for good measure. “Ben, wouldja trap it in a cup and put it outside? Fuckin’ gross.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There he is,” Eddie laughs, hands shaking where they haven’t released Richie’s left arm from a vice grip.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie gets himself to sit upright with minimal assistance. That’s probably as far as he can go for now, though; he’s pretty sure he’d collapse or puke – or both – if he tried to stand up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Speaking of which – yeah, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely </span>
  </em>
  <span>threw up on Eddie, just a little on the sleeve of his jacket. He grimaces at the mess. “Shit, Eds…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” Eddie says quickly, although he starts to shrug out of the jacket the moment his attention is drawn back to it. Above them, the clown is clawing and laughing. Sounds like a fucking semi barreling toward them. “We’re in a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>sewer, </span>
  </em>
  <span>it’s fine. I was already gonna burn all this shit the second we get out of here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Guys…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie looks at Ben, and then again at Eddie. They open their mouths at the same time, but only Richie already knows what they’re both about to say.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>-*-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So, what’s your diagnosis, doc? Bad trip?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie pauses mid-step at the sound of Richie’s voice, momentarily relieved that the Townhouse stairs happen to be padded with a layer of threadbare carpet. He hardly has time to get worried about “diagnosis” and “doc” before Mike responds.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The worst.” He sounds sympathetic and a lot less jovial than Richie had. “You sure you’re feeling okay after all that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie slinks a little further down the stairs to catch Richie’s response. It’s a wonder he’s up earlier than Eddie, considering how he could hardly walk straight yesterday and didn’t even want to join them for celebratory drinks after a nap last night – but maybe that’s why. Maybe all he needed was the extra time to sleep it off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But if that’s true, what the hell is he talking about now?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good as new,” Richie replies. That’s followed by a series of soft thumping noises, like he’s patting his chest to demonstrate how thoroughly </span>
  <em>
    <span>in one piece </span>
  </em>
  <span>he is. Eddie wants to be down there to see it almost as badly as he wants to already be in the process of acquiring a much-needed meal and some coffee, but he can’t bring himself to move just yet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A piece of furniture squeaks under someone’s weight. Then Beverly starts talking, too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Was everyone </span>
  </em>
  <span>but </span>
  <em>
    <span>me invited to this conversation?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Most of what I saw in them didn’t happen.” Eddie’s grip on the polished wood of the banister gets tighter. The old couch, chair, whatever squeaks again, and there’s a quieter sound like a broom scraping dry asphalt. “But I didn’t see as much as you did.”</span>
</p>
<p><span>“Or maybe you just don’t remember some of it?” Richie says. His voice sounds strained this time; he’s giving up the pretense awfully fast. “I mean, there’s still a happy medium for forgetting shit that happened decades ago, right? Supposedly it happens to everyone who didn’t</span> <span>live in a possessed demon town.”</span></p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think so,” Beverly says. She sounds </span>
  <em>
    <span>sorry </span>
  </em>
  <span>about it, but Eddie can’t parse why. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes Richie a long time to respond, and when he does, he sounds so much worse that Eddie almost bounds into the living room just to make sure he’s not actually sick, after all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I mean – seeing Stan. That wasn’t ever… there was no way that could come true, and – and Eddie and I are alive </span>
  <em>
    <span>now, </span>
  </em>
  <span>so barring a freak accident, that knocks out at least a third of the shit I…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A familiar vice closes around Eddie’s lungs; he starts digging the crescents of his nails into the wood, not particularly caring how visible the marks he leaves might wind up being.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s hardly a break between the unfinished end of that sentence and quick footsteps. Eddie takes a panicked step back, but the sound cuts off almost as soon as it begins. It’s followed by still more creaking as cushions dip under extra weight. Richie is sniffling, now, and Eddie’s beginning to think he should march right back up the stairs and pretend to still be asleep, rather than continue playing voyeur to his friend’s semi-private breakdown.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of </span>
  <em>
    <span>course</span>
  </em>
  <span> Richie didn’t drop by Eddie’s room beforehand with an invitation to a serious talk, let alone one only Bev and Mike could possibly have anything to contribute to. Knowing Richie, there might even be a better-than-average chance he wasn’t the one who initiated this conversation in the first place.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Look at it this way,” Mike offers. “If there’s anything we </span>
  <em>
    <span>have </span>
  </em>
  <span>learned from the Deadlights, it’s that there are tons of possible futures for any given point in time. Things can happen a lot of different ways. It’s like… alternate realities. Some futures – well, they were only possible before…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Before something happened to change that,” Beverly says. Eddie’s frown deepens; someone should be telling her – and Mike, too, </span>
  <em>
    <span>again, as many times as it takes, </span>
  </em>
  <span>that it wasn’t their fault. That Stan – that it wasn’t inevitable, of </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking </span>
  </em>
  <span>course it wasn’t, but that doesn’t – </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When‘d you become a quantum physicist, Doctor Hanlon?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mike chuckles, apparently opting to ignore Richie’s lackluster delivery. “That’s one thing you’d need more than a book or two to master, but thanks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie laughs, too, and chases it with another sniffle. “Ugh. Figures, huh? An alternate universe is the only place I’d get that lucky. Hope impossible future me appreciates how good he’s got it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The ensuing silence stretches a little longer than anything before it did. Eddie starts to inch back up the stairs, one mercifully quiet floorboard at a time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Richie, speaking as someone who just resolved almost thirty years of – well, with Ben… that we could have figured out sooner if we’d just </span>
  <em>
    <span>talked </span>
  </em>
  <span>to each other? Just”—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie must interrupt her with a gesture. Eddie finds himself rooted to the spot again; he’s just not quite willing to turn any more than he has to to glance over his shoulder. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And tell him </span>
  <em>
    <span>what,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Bev? ‘By the way, Eduardo, the monster clown we killed in Derry accidentally told me you’d either die or wind up snogging me, which do </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>think is worse?’”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If Eddie’s mouth were any drier, he could strike a match in it. Maybe that’d sterilize the hastily-stitched hole in his fucking face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Breakfast can wait, after all; with any luck, one of the Losers will come looking for him when they’re all ready to make easier conversation over some good old-fashioned Derry takeout.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t make the same careful effort to silence his footsteps the rest of the way back up, but over the thudding in his chest, he hardly registers the creak of a single loose board or the thunderous rattling of his key in the lock.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>-*-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The knock Eddie wears himself thin anticipating never comes; instead, he gets a text from a number he doesn’t have saved in his contacts, which is how he notices it half-lost in the jumble of missed calls, texts and messages Myra has sent through nearly every app he has on his phone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sees </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘this is richie btw’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>first, timestamped over fifteen minutes ago. When he swipes to open it, he finds three more all sent within, apparently, seconds of each other.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course Richie would be the kind of texter who splits one message into four. It must have been hell on his manager before unlimited texting became more or less the default.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>‘hey bev says if u dont come down soon ur getting sunny side up eggs for breakfast’</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>‘do u even still hate those’</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>‘oh right allergies’</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That explains the muffled voices he can just make out downstairs; the soundproofing in this place is beyond terrible, but at least it’s not so bad that anyone could understand actual words and sentences without, say, lurking in empty stairwells.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie is just getting around to remembering – and regretting – that he still has automatic read receipts turned on in his settings when the typing bubble appears and disappears in a flash. His phone vibrates with another message.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>‘You don’t actually have 2 come, I get it. Any special requests for takeout? Idk about u but im hungrier than a sewer clown lol’</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Another vibration, this time sans the typing notification. </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Don’t worry, we’ll order it after we eat so it’ll be fresh’</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>‘Too soon for clown jokes?’</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie fights down the nervous twisting in his gut and still winds up typing several variations on the same response before changing his mind entirely: </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Yeah, I think I’ll just wait here if you guys don’t mind. Hit me up for dinner though.’</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s the kind of thing he can see Richie responding to with a winky face and an innuendo; instead, all he gets back is a thumbs-up emoji, which </span>
  <em>
    <span>feels </span>
  </em>
  <span>like it probably means “fuck you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie stares at it for a moment, chest tight, and then painstakingly types, </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘And even the clown wouldn’t eat runny egg yolks.’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>He even adds a vomiting emoji in an attempt to lighten the mood, but somehow, reading back over it half a dozen times after he’s sent it, it’s obvious that it falls pathetically short of accomplishing that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie doesn’t even respond.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Downstairs, the front door creaks open and booms shut; Eddie listens until he can no longer hear any of his friends’ footsteps or the soft rumble of cars starting up and leaving, and then he </span>
  <em>
    <span>keeps </span>
  </em>
  <span>listening until all he can focus on is the thudding of his pulse and the buzz of another message from Myra.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t even have to look at the timestamps to know her messages are spread across the entire night – this entire trip, more like, and with increasing frequency. He doesn’t have to read every single one to get the gist of all of them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tries, anyway, and then he quits trying because he doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>need </span>
  </em>
  <span>a reminder. Maybe surviving a fight that – that </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>could have killed him, </span>
  <em>
    <span>would </span>
  </em>
  <span>have killed him – maybe surviving that shouldn’t have had to be what it took for him to make up his mind, but it’s – it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> made up, and Eddie doesn’t need Richie’s convenient future vision to tell him the reason for that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reasons, plural. They’re all tied to the past, not some hypothetical future he knows nothing about.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His finger hovers over the call button while he reads and rereads Myra’s name, listed in red alongside a few clients’ names in his missed calls. At least in this app he doesn’t have to see the picture she chose for her entry in his contacts – doesn’t have to picture her crying before he’s given her any reason to. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a few more moments of hesitation, he stuffs his phone into his pocket and his feet into a spare pair of sneakers, and he escapes his room with twice the desperation he did when he was sporting a fresh stab wound oozing a small fountain of blood.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>-*-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Derry’s residential streets are lined with the skeletons of familiar houses buried under fresh coats of paint, toys abandoned in the front yards of places that once belonged to retired couples, tall grass, new flower beds, and chain link fences. Most of them still don’t have sidewalks, or probably enough traffic to justify throwing any part of a severely limited infrastructure budget at putting some in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe the clown’s death will change that – get everyone in this town thinking a little harder about the safety of its youngest residents – but Eddie doubts it. Some things, you just can’t chalk up to extraterrestrial monsters. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or he’s just being unfairly pessimistic on the heels of an arduous thirty, forty-minute “talk” with Myra – mostly a one-sided attempt to convince Eddie that he doesn’t know what he’s doing – </span>
  <em>
    <span>getting a divorce – </span>
  </em>
  <span>that he’s being manipulated by “those people” </span>
  <em>
    <span>– you’re the first person I’ve told, alright – </span>
  </em>
  <span>and so on and so forth. But I need you, you need me, etc. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So maybe things will get better here, too, no matter how rough the transition is in the meantime. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stomping along while his eyes go on stinging with unshed tears dredges up fuzzy sense-memories of his long-forgotten childhood. Maybe he should have appreciated Derry’s fresh air more in the years before he moved to a big city. The green, too, and the relative quiet. It’s easier to pick out individual sounds here – kids laughing, doors slamming, the droning of a lawnmower and the occasional plane passing overhead. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He used to watch those, after school and a Saturday afternoon here and there. He and Richie used to take turns guessing where they were going. Making plans to be on them someday.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The path Eddie takes carefully skirts his old house, just the way he used to, and just the way he used to, he somehow winds up in front of Richie’s old house instead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s where Richie finds him, pacing like a caged animal. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This </span>
  </em>
  <span>street has a sidewalk – always did – and that’s definitely for the best, given that Eddie doesn’t register the sound of a slowly approaching car until it’s practically on top of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eds.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie sounds as surprised to see Eddie as Eddie is to hear him. When Eddie whirls around to look at him, he’s blinking furiously, one hand tight on the steering wheel. It takes him a minute, but eventually he reaches across to Eddie’s side of the car and pushes the door open. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Want a ride?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie stares dumbly at the proffered seat. “What happened to breakfast?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>God, he’s fucking starving. What the hell was he thinking, ignoring his empty stomach and bruised, aching muscles to wander around for over an hour? At this rate, he’s still gonna be feeling like shit a week from now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>yours </span>
  </em>
  <span>is definitely already waiting for you back at the Townhouse,” Richie says. “I thought – I was just hitting up a few old places. Thought it might be nice to have a greatest hits tour without the looming threat of death kind of ruining it. Great minds, huh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s only when he reaches out again to pat at the leather passenger seat that Eddie notices the open cut on his thumb. He chases it into the car and catches Richie by the wrist before he can return his hand to the steering wheel.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie’s breath catches, but his papier-mache smile only slips for an instant.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What happened here?” Eddie wonders, but he lets go so Richie can start driving again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where’s that fanny pack first aid kit when you need it?” Richie jokes. His accompanying laughter is tight and awkward. “It’s fine, Eds. Just nicked myself a little.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s really fucking hard to picture you eating breakfast with a fork and knife,” Eddie says just as awkwardly. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>is, </span>
  </em>
  <span>which is how he knows that can’t be what happened.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh,” Richie gulps, taking a turn fast enough that Eddie makes an instinctive grab at the handle hanging from the ceiling. “Rude – gotta be able to look civilized at business dinners, y’know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“People have dinner with you in a professional setting and you </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>just spend the entire time telling ‘your mom’ jokes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Those are reserved for dinners with you,” Richie promises.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lucky me,” Eddie sighs. He remembers to let go of the chicken handle as they round another corner, but that leaves his hands with nothing to do.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His fingers go still against the band of his wedding ring almost as soon as he touches it; slipping it off comes as easily as throwing away a bottle of pills, or throwing open a screen door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eds?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The car slows to a stop. Eddie looks at Richie; Richie is looking at the ring Eddie has clutched in a loose fist. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Eddie blinks. “No, this – it’s not…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie’s expression shutters instantly, but he doesn’t start the car again. Instead, he turns to stare out his window. He turns so much that Eddie can’t see enough of his face to read his expression at all when he says, “I know, Eds.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie grimaces. “Did you see this, too?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A muscle in Richie’s shoulder twitches. “Not exactly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then – uh, I’m sorry,” Eddie mumbles. “For giving you the wrong idea just now. I’m just… I’m going to get a divorce. I told Myra.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie’s breath hitches again. His voice comes out wobbly. “Wow, Eddie, fucking thanks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What? I just”—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t want me to get the wrong idea,” Richie echoes. He sucks a slow breath in through his teeth before turning back to face front. He doesn’t look at Eddie at all as he puts the car back in drive. “I’ll get over it, alright? If you hadn’t been fucking eavesdropping you never would’ve heard about any of that to begin with. I’m not trying to make it your problem.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Does it have to be a problem at all?” Eddie tries, desperate to smooth this out before they get back to the Townhouse and the conversation grinds to a dead halt. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The anger drains from Richie’s expression, leaving him looking exhausted. And really fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>sad. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It’s all Eddie can do not to reach across the console and pull him into a hug, but that’d definitely cause an accident, and Eddie has already had enough of those for one week.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t want it to be, either,” Richie says. “But I’m so fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>tired</span>
  </em>
  <span> of hiding, Eds. So if – if that’s the price of admission, I can’t do it. Either you’re cool about me being – being gay, or you’re not, alright? I wanna know now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An icy sensation courses its way down the back of Eddie’s neck. Weakly, he says, “You never said you were actually gay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Surprise,” Richie mutters at the steering wheel. His thumb leaves a tiny red smudge as he turns it; the Derry Townhouse looms up ahead. “I mean, for all we know, none of what I saw was ever really going to happen. Fucking clown was just messing with me – probably </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted </span>
  </em>
  <span>this to happen.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gestures vaguely at the heavy space between them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Rich, stop the car.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re almost there…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here,” Eddie insists.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie could be doing an impression of </span>
  <em>
    <span>him, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the way his mouth presses into a flat line, but he pulls off to the side of the road and, this time, puts on his hazard lights before turning to look at Eddie. Like he expects him to open the door and get out to walk the remainder of the distance to their hotel.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie does unbuckle his seatbelt, but then he moves in the opposite direction, instead, </span>
  <em>
    <span>toward </span>
  </em>
  <span>Richie, and Richie freezes like a scared rabbit even before Eddie pulls him into a cramped hug.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s never been a price,” he says half into Richie’s shoulder and half into his headrest. Eddie can’t believe he hasn’t bothered to adjust it to accommodate his height. “You’re my best friend for free, okay? There’s no condition and I don’t have a problem with you. I promise.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I don’t have a problem with </span>
  <em>
    <span>you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>a traitorous voice in his head repeats. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s not you, Richie, it’s me. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He hopes Richie doesn’t hear that misplaced emphasis.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie starts sniffling again, this time right in Eddie’s ear. He only hugs Eddie back with one hand, hesitantly, but it’s better like this, being intentionally trusted with Richie’s tears, and being here to catch them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He waits for Richie to let go first; settling back into his own seat, the space between them feels almost normal again. It’s just a couple of drink holders and some polished leather. If this were Richie’s own car and not a rental, Eddie would expect there to be a handful of CDs stowed inside the armrest, perfectly functional bluetooth audio be damned.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Richie rasps. His smile is more genuine this time because it doesn’t try to eclipse his puffy eyes and frowning eyebrows. “Sorry about all this, man. And, uh, shit – congrats on the, uh. Divorce.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie snorts. “Save it for when it’s finally over.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie chuckles, too, and after exchanging a look with Eddie, pulls the car back onto the road. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He parks a lot farther from the door than he has to – lucky for any would-be tourists, they’re the only jackasses who came to stay here this week – but it’s not the obvious privacy grab Eddie expects it to be; Richie gets out of the car first and hardly waits for Eddie to follow him inside, where Bill and Mike are waiting with a lukewarm takeout bag generously stuffed full of food Eddie doesn’t feel much like eating anymore.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>-*-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>At about half-past four in the morning, Eddie’s phone startles him awake so jarringly that his mind jumps straight to the conclusion that he’s being attacked, and from there to the assumption that he’s overslept all five of his wake-up alarms and is unsalvageably late to work. He only gets more worried when he stops blindly scrambling to turn the alarm off and instead recognizes the face filling up his lockscreen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a picture he borrowed from Richie’s public Twitter account, a favorite of Eddie’s because it could just as easily have been taken and posted by one of the Losers; Richie’s laughing too hard in it to waste any effort looking at the camera, assuming he knew he was being photographed at all. The photographer caught him halfway to adjusting his slipping glasses with the hand that isn’t holding a glass of some amber-colored liquor. The ice inside has melted, and Richie’s fingers were probably dripping wet from the condensation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It might be the first time Eddie hasn’t felt bizarrely caught out, answering the phone to a picture Richie has no reason to suspect he has saved.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course it just made logical sense to find something worth using as a contact picture, even if Eddie did have to scroll for ages to find a good one. It’s not like he was about to make a special request for a selfie; he just hopes Richie will get around to posting one in their private group chat one of these days.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie answers the call just barely in time to keep it from going to voicemail, and despite the rude awakening, he sounds a lot less alert than he feels. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The only response he gets is harsh breathing punctuated with short, high-pitched noises like pained whines. It sounds like every horror movie prank call ever and a fair number of actual nightmares, so when the line goes dead Eddie doesn’t just call back – he sits up in bed, turns his bedside lamp on and minimizes the phone app to start googling flights to LA. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes two call-backs to get a response, during which time Eddie narrows his options down to two flights, remembers that Richie isn’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>in </span>
  </em>
  <span>LA right now and convinces himself to at least wait for evidence that he’s not overreacting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gets that in spades, of course.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why, Eddie, fancy meeting you on this phone line.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What the fuck, Richie,” Eddie snaps. The relief leaves him shaking, his grip on his phone so loose he nearly drops it. “Do you have any idea what time it is here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie swallows audibly. “Yeah – no, I. I mean technically we only have a two-hour time difference where I am?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie glances at the clock. “Oh, my bad,” he says sarcastically. “Two forty-five is a perfectly reasonable time to call your friends.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought you’d have it on ‘do not disturb!’”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why not just text if all you wanted to do was leave a message?” Eddie asks. When Richie doesn’t respond, he sighs and adds, “I usually do, I just don’t always remember to turn it on before bed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The other end of the line is so quiet that he can’t even hear Richie breathing anymore. Finally, Richie says, “Sorry for bugging you, dude. It’s nothing, false alarm.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie rushes to talk before Richie can hang up. “You – you’re not bugging me, Richie, you fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>scared </span>
  </em>
  <span>me. What do you mean, ‘false alarm?’ Are you okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A short puff of air, not quite a sigh. Like he’s been holding his breath. “Just a nightmare, Eds. I overreacted.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie pulls the phone away from his face to look over the flights he has queued in his browser. He returns it to his ear and admits, “I kinda did, too… Uh, do you wanna talk? Maybe we can catch something good on TV, take your mind off it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’d do that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I’ll even suffer through a sitcom. One-time offer, take it or leave it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll take it,” Richie says immediately. Eddie can hear him adjusting the covers, then a sudden flurry of background noise that quickly grows quiet again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He must have already had the TV remote on hand, which is sort of funny considering how late some of Richie’s shows seem to run. Eddie wouldn’t have thought he had the time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In hindsight, Eddie almost regrets not putting the TV in his bedroom, across from the bed the way it is in every hotel room in the world. It just hadn’t seemed worth the trouble of mounting it on the wall when he first moved into this place – although if he had, he might have spared himself the small handful of stiff necks he’s sustained by falling asleep on the couch after work. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His recently divorced lifestyle is a far fucking cry from Richie’s touring, that’s for sure.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finding a channel they have in common turns out to be a little harder than Eddie would have expected. He should have, maybe, because the only reason he has cable in the first place is that he autopiloted through setting it up along with wi-fi the moment he moved out of the hotel and into a one-bedroom apartment. Hotels </span>
  <em>
    <span>always </span>
  </em>
  <span>have better cable packages, but it’s 2016 and streaming is so much more convenient, anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Foiled out of watching a late-night showing of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Burn After Reading – </span>
  </em>
  <span>is it tacky to like that one because Brad Pitt was good in it? – Eddie lets Richie talk him into watching some god-awful, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Friends-</span>
  </em>
  <span>esque sitcom that Richie assures him is actually nothing like </span>
  <em>
    <span>Friends.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie wouldn’t know; at most, he’s caught enough scattered fragments of that show to equal one and a half episodes, tops.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie’s jokes </span>
  <em>
    <span>about </span>
  </em>
  <span>the show are funnier than pretty much anything that happens in it, so Eddie notices when they start to become less frequent, but he doesn’t say anything about it. Just lets his own jokes and comments fall off, too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wonders if Richie saw </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> in the Deadlights. If he saw Eddie flick off the TV and carry his phone to bed with Richie still snoring away through the tinny speaker. But that’s all it is – fleeting curiosity – so he doesn’t say anything about that, either, and by the time he wakes up to his actual work alarms, the call has already ended.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>-*-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s mid-afternoon on a Saturday, and Eddie has done nothing but go for a long, meandering jog that took him past the low-rent stage theater located a good thirty or forty minutes from his apartment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he pictures Richie’s upcoming visit to New York – the penultimate stop in his big coming out tour – Eddie usually pictures the show happening there, with one of the smaller stages he’s seen in Richie’s earlier videos to fill that important blank. He could find out what the place </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually </span>
  </em>
  <span>looks like on the inside, of course, but he’d have to go alone if he couldn’t get Bev to free up some time in her own busy schedule to keep him company. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie’s show won’t be like that; they’ll </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> be there, six seats for five people in a much, </span>
  <em>
    <span>much </span>
  </em>
  <span>larger venue. Eddie’s had his ticket pinned to the fridge since he got it in the mail. Of course, Richie assures him he doesn’t really need it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘I’ll just tell them to keep an eye out for the biggest scowl in the crowd.’</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can fucking smile,” he tells the fogged-over mirror when he’s done with his shower. If Richie were here, he wouldn’t miss the opportunity to point out the scowl he wears as he says it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie finishes moisturizing, gets dressed and checks his phone out of habit, mostly. He’s pleasantly surprised to find a few new messages from Bev, sent to the group less than five minutes ago.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>‘Losers, meet Bacon!’</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s an attachment, which Eddie settles onto the couch to open in the chat. It feels so nice sinking onto the cushions, sun-warmed and easy on his tired muscles, he just might risk fucking up his sleep schedule for a cat nap.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>First things first, though.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The picture is of a dog, a big one with graying fur and a few pink lines marking up its snout – old wounds where the fur hasn’t quite managed to grow back. They don’t seem to bother it much; Eddie can’t help but coo to himself over the big lolling tongue and motion-blurred tail. It must be Ben’s hand patting the animal’s head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time he gets around to responding, Richie’s already on it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>‘Holy shit did u realy name her bacon’</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie laughs a little guiltily; it wouldn’t have been his first choice, either, but in fairness, if he were adopting a dog with Richie, he wouldn’t let </span>
  <em>
    <span>him </span>
  </em>
  <span>have free rein to pick the name, either.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In </span>
  <em>
    <span>extra </span>
  </em>
  <span>fairness, though, it’s also true that any name Richie did choose would inevitably, albeit slowly, grow on Eddie. He’d find a cuter way to shorten it, if nothing else.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He decides to counterbalance Richie’s text with a more enthusiastic one of his own: </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Adorable!’</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>‘What’s wrong with bacon?’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ben adds. </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘It’s her favorite treat. :)</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>‘Thank you, Eddie!’</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>‘We’ll tell her u both said that,’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>comes Beverly’s response.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mike’s text pops up a few seconds later. </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Looks like you’re already losing favor with the dog, Richie.’ </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>‘Ill have u all know she fucking loves me actually’</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>‘Only because she hasn’t met you yet,’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eddie responds, rushing to get it in before Bill can finish typing whatever he was about to say (a belated </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘What a beautiful dog! What breeed is he?’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>– definitely not a purebred, and Eddie could have guessed that much even without Ben’s helpful answer).</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He watches for Richie’s response, but all he sees is appearing and disappearing typing bubbles. Apparently all those drafts get deleted rather than sent, and for the next several minutes of excited chatter both Richie and Bev disappear entirely.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie gives up on waiting for a clapback, and with no more distractingly cute pictures of Bacon to keep him occupied he opts to wander into the kitchen to make an early-dinner-slash-late-lunch, his catnap forgotten in favor of an unobtrusive replay of one of Richie’s old sets.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not particularly funny – not like the things Richie comes up with himself, like the smattering of samples he sent to all of them when he was still waist-deep (or as he put it, balls-deep) in the writing process – but funny or not, it does wonders for filling the real Richie’s silences.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So does getting a call from the man himself. It interrupts Eddie in the process of tossing a salad in a light dressing. It feels pretty fancy, even if the vinaigrette he likes is store-bought and probably chock-full of preservatives.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, Rich,” he greets, double-checking to ensure he has the audio set to speaker. “Don’t tell me you’re calling to ask my opinion on dog adoption.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course not,” Richie replies. “But for argument’s sake, what do you think – big dogs or small dogs?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Get a small one and carry it in one of those obnoxious purses.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie sniffs. “That’s a harmful stereotype. Obviously I’d train it to pilot its own mini-helicopter.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That sounds like an accident waiting to happen,” Eddie says helpfully. “Just don’t let it get too close to you on stage. The mic won’t work if it’s covered in blood.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie laughs, but it doesn’t sound genuine. “Okay, next question. Would </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>ever name a dog Bacon?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie snorts. “Come on, Richie, it’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>bad.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bizarrely, </span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>what brings Richie up short; all he says is, “Huh…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What are you gonna do, put together a petition asking Ben and Bev to change their dog’s name?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s a thought! Can I count on your signature?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie grins down at the block of fancy manchego – his favorite go at trying different cheeses so far – and cuts a few slices for a sandwich. “Sure, but only if the new name is worse.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie laughs again, and again he doesn’t follow it up with a similarly jokey response. Instead, he says, “Shoulda known it wasn’t our – yours. You probably think it’s cute to give pets human names. Mildred the Shih Tzu.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a convenient excuse not to admit that Richie might be onto something with that one. “What wasn’t ours?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie hesitates. “Uh, so in my defense – actually, never mind. We don’t have to </span>
  <em>
    <span>talk </span>
  </em>
  <span>talk about it, but in – in Derry. I saw Bacon. Same dog, same name, different – different owners.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clearly he means </span>
  <em>
    <span>them, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Richie and Eddie, and doggy makes three. The corners of Eddie’s mouth twitch up in another involuntary smile, but it’s accompanied by a sinking feeling, like he’s just been dunked in a vat of cold water.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He takes too long to respond, or too long for how nervous Richie sounds. “Don’t know why I brought it up. I guess it’s good, though, right? More evidence that the shit I saw wasn’t real.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why is that good?” Eddie says with more force than intended.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can hear Richie floundering on the other end of the line. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I – I just thought you wanted it that way,” he says at last. “Look – never mind, can we just”—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I never said that,” Eddie interrupts, except he did, kind of, by not saying anything to the contrary. It’s not like he ever gave Richie the space to talk about anything specific; it’s not like just </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinking </span>
  </em>
  <span>about every secret Richie keeps about his Deadlights visions doesn’t leave Eddie desperate for inane distractions. “You brought it up because you wanted to, right? So – so tell me about it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’d rather not, Eds. Sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Eddie says, going quiet, thrown for a loop. “But… well, why, then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie’s voice sounds far away, like he’s followed Eddie’s example and put the phone down to do something else – except Eddie’s all but abandoned his sandwich, anyway, and he can’t hear much background activity on Richie’s end. He throws a couple slices of bread into the toaster just to maintain the illusion that he’s still working on it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Think about it. It’s weird for me, too, this whole… Deadlights thing. It’s deja vu on steroids. You’d need a reality check from time to time, too, if you were in my shoes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie bites his lower lip almost hard enough to hurt. “So I’m just your depressing reality check, then, huh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He regrets it as soon as he’s said it, but by the time he starts trying to apologize, Richie’s already sucking in a breath like he’s just taken a physical blow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re my best friend,” he says, and Eddie knows from the quaver that he’s either crying or trying very hard not to. “It’s not – I don’t wanna lose that. For a minute there I thought I </span>
  <em>
    <span>would, </span>
  </em>
  <span>so honest to god, no, just having this isn’t depressing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie tries to smile. It falters when his toast pops up with a clang – he still jumps at little things like that more than he used to, maybe that’s something they both have in common now – but his heart was already racing anyway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not gonna lose me,” he promises. “I’m – I’m really looking forward to seeing you </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>on a tiny computer screen.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. Then, Richie says, still quiet, “You watch my stuff?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie can’t blame the mid-afternoon sun streaming in through the windows for the way his face and neck heat up. “Uh – it’s not like I can watch your new set yet, except – you know some people definitely sneak cameras into your shows? You need better security.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie laughs. “Aw, Eds. I like to think a few spoilers here and there get people excited for the whole thing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve always been better in person,” Eddie agrees. “Ben and Bev and I have a whole list of places to take you guys to after, by the way, so don’t be completely exhausted.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll do my best,” Richie says with a touch of amusement that Eddie could swear makes it easier to breathe.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And don’t forget you can call me,” he adds, fidgeting with the knife until he thinks better of that and puts it down to rewrap the cheese block instead. He doesn’t clarify that he means any time, but he does. He’s pretty sure Richie understands, or he really hopes he does, anyway.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>-*-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie changes his mind about it several times in as many hours. He’s known from the moment he woke up restless and exhausted in the wee hours of the morning that tonight would be another one of </span>
  <em>
    <span>those</span>
  </em>
  <span> nights, because they always come in threes. Or fours, or enough to fill a week and then some with tossing and turning.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was going to call him anyway,” he says aloud, phone in hand, thumb poised yet again over Richie’s name in his contacts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The timing should be just right. Richie’s show should have wrapped up long enough ago to see him back in his hotel room, but hopefully not so long ago that he’s already gone to sleep.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He could also be out having a late dinner with one of those fabulously handsome suitors he keeps bullshitting them about.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s that thought, for no particular reason, that finally prompts Eddie to press the call button.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eds!” Richie’s excited greeting is promptly followed by a much sterner tone – “Do you have any idea what </span>
  <em>
    <span>time </span>
  </em>
  <span>it is?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t sound like that,” Eddie says reflexively. His heart sinks when he hears something else in the background. “Is someone in the – is there water running?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Richie responds, like it’s no big deal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Eddie says, trying not to sound too dejected about it. “Sorry for interrupting”—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie cuts him off with a high-pitched laugh, something in between surprised and embarrassed. “Don’t worry, all you’re interrupting is a beautiful one-man rendition of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody.’”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So it’s just you,” Eddie breathes, instantly but very temporarily mollified. “Wait – so you were showering just now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I try to make sure it’s only my jokes that are dirty,” Richie quips. “But I couldn’t just leave you hanging after the other night, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The persistent mental image of Richie reclining lazily against the polished counter of some upscale hotel bathroom, naked from toe to tip and dripping wet like he just walked off the set of a soft-core porno, well – it settles low in Eddie’s belly and makes a mess of his thought process. Jiminy Christmas, since when was he so hyperreactive? Clearly he needs to find an outlet that actually fucking works, pun </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>intended, but that’s a problem for another night.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“R-right,” he manages, scrambling to remember what Richie just finished saying. “Uh, how’d you know it was me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“ESP, and I have ringtones picked out for all of you. Just so I know who’s trying to get me out of bed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Or into it, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eddie thinks, closely followed by </span>
  <em>
    <span>What the fuck?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why is mine ‘Bohemian Rhapsody?’” Eddie’s not even the one who actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>has </span>
  </em>
  <span>killed a man. The clown doesn’t count, and he had nothing to do with Bowers, unless you count that extra stab wound and a little help with the coverup.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah,” Richie says. “It’s not. </span>
  <em>
    <span>And </span>
  </em>
  <span>I’m not telling,” he adds to head off Eddie’s next question.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie lets his breath go in a short sigh. It’s probably an on-the-nose song about heartbreak, then, because if it were a joke, Richie wouldn’t hesitate to share it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine. Do you have… uh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>time,</span>
  </em>
  <span> for one thing, and – did you bring a computer with you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He packed so little for Derry, he must be used to traveling light—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, I’m not about to watch porn on my </span>
  <em>
    <span>phone,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Richie says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie laughs to hide the embarrassed flush that crawls right back up the back of his neck. “Wanna watch a </span>
  <em>
    <span>real </span>
  </em>
  <span>movie, then? We can find something short if you don’t have much time. I know it’s late there…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The water on Richie’s end gets louder, which probably means closer; Eddie hears the telltale rattle of a shower curtain being pulled back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ten minutes,” Richie says. “I’ll call you back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie beams at his computer screen. “So closer to twenty, then.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, you don’t even wanna know how sweaty it gets backstage. I’m thinking of using steel wool to get the grime off.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And most of your skin with it,” Eddie replies with a grimace. “I’ll be waiting for a call from </span>
  <em>
    <span>you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>not a confused EMT.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie actually calls him back in just under nine minutes, and then they round it up to twenty arguing about what qualifies as a “real” movie, anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This time and contrary to all expectations, it’s Eddie who falls asleep first – not to the sound of Richie’s snoring, but to the sound of him animatedly talking through </span>
  <em>
    <span>Gremlins.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wakes up to his work alarms and a text from Richie that says, </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Night, Eds. This was nice, even if u did fall asleep not even halfway thru ;)’</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie spends several drowsy minutes reading and rereading the entire text before he lays back on his memory foam pillow, holding his favorite parts of it in his head like pieces from two mismatched puzzles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Combined just right, they could paint a different picture, a collage that – as painfully trite as it would be if he were ever to suffer the indignity of saying it out loud – is greater than the sum of its parts. One where the pieces fit together just right, somehow, and Richie sends him good night texts </span>
  <em>
    <span>every </span>
  </em>
  <span>night, ends them with flirty emojis or emoticons or whatever they’re actually called – one where Eddie gives him dozens of reasons to say “this was nice.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The metaphorical cartoon thought bubble vanishes in a puff of smoke, and Eddie sits up fast enough to send his phone tumbling onto the floor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Holy shit.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>-*-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie doesn’t realize how closely he’s skirting the line that separates “friendly gesture” and “seedy bribe” until he’s halfway to the window table Bev and Mike picked out with three drinks and a muffin balanced precariously in hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mike spots him first and gets up to help prevent a nasty spill, while Eddie drastically increases the probability that one will happen by trying to shrug him off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not a bribe. It’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>conversation.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mike practically has to catch the muffin in mid-air; Eddie relents but doesn’t relax as he settles into his chair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks,” he mutters when Beverly pushes a honey bear across the table to him. She must have stolen it from the condiment station; Eddie figures if they’re going to hoard it, he might as well actually use it, and proceeds to squeeze a too-generous amount into his drink.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So,” Beverly begins. Eddie stiffens and resolutely doesn’t raise his eyes from the wooden stick he’s using to stir the honey in – impossible; he’s created an unappetizing syrup – but instead of asking Eddie why he dragged them both out for this impromptu coffee date, she continues, “Mike, how was the flight? Jet-lagged?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wish I could say I’m getting used to it,” Mike laughs. “Honestly, this coffee is a lifesaver. Thanks, Eddie.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie’s eyes flick up to Mike’s smiling face, and then back to his own mug. He can’t stop himself tapping at the porcelain handle. “Don’t mention it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can feel curious eyes on him, but Beverly just keeps bouncing questions off of Mike – where he’s been, where he’s going next, any sneak previews of the stories he was probably planning to save for the whole group. The longer Eddie listens, the easier he finds it to laugh and chat along with them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>always </span>
  </em>
  <span>easier when it isn’t about him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Beverly knocks back the last dregs of her coffee and startles the hell out of Eddie and Mike by slamming it back down with all the force of someone who’s just chugged a pint of beer rather than slowly sipping at a dark chocolate mocha. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, Eddie,” she begins. Eddie thinks he could probably blame his wide-eyed stare on the sound, but Beverly definitely knows better. “Was there something you wanted to talk to us about?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gulp. “Can’t I ask you guys out for coffee just because?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure,” Mike says kindly. “It’s great to see you. And…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He glances at Beverly, who offers him a reassuring smile. “If there’s something bothering you, we’re happy to help.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Like you don’t already know,” Eddie says a lot more bitterly than he’d really meant to. He sucks in a breath and takes to shredding the little napkin that came with the muffin. “Sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We can take a rain check,” Mike offers with a shrug.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie shakes his head immediately. “No way. It’s not even a big deal. I just – I was hoping you could tell me more about what happened in the Deadlights. To Richie. Obviously.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Beverly and Mike exchange another look, this one a lot less comfortable.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>think he saw?” Mike asks lightly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just me – </span>
  <em>
    <span>us</span>
  </em>
  <span> dying several times, and that maybe we – uh, had something. Him and me. It’s not that much to go on.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He didn’t give us a lot of details, either, Eddie,” Beverly says, sounding just like she did in the sitting room of the Derry Townhouse, apologizing to Richie for not being able to tell him she’d seen the same things he did.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And you should really ask him,” Mike adds. “If you haven’t already talked about it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No… not really,” Eddie hedges. “I – but I </span>
  <em>
    <span>tried. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He said no.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Try again,” Beverly says matter-of-factly. “Be honest.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t. I don’t even know why I’m asking.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s not entirely true, but he’s been enough of an asshole as it is; he doesn’t want to preface any more discussions with a request that Richie keep his hopes down. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So tell him that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie frowns. “No. He – it’s not some casual thing for – I just can’t, alright?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Beverly crosses her arms over her chest. “Eddie, whatever this is, it’s important to you, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“…I guess so.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So at least give Richie the opportunity to work it out with you,” Mike tells him. “I mean – when he talked to us, he was just as worried about your friendship as he was about anything else.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But be honest,” Beverly repeats.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The whole </span>
  <em>
    <span>point </span>
  </em>
  <span>is that I don’t want to – to lead him on,” Eddie sputters. “Things are okay now and if he wants to see some other guy, that’s good!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stalls out with his hands raised halfway over his head in frustration. Bev and Mike both have their eyebrows raised at him, like they’re actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>surprised. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eddie wasn’t prepared for anyone to be surprised.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before either of his friends can actually say anything about it, he lurches to his feet and speedwalks out of the cafe without another word. He speedwalks all the way back to the office, cuts his lunch break nearly twenty minutes shorter than intended, and doesn’t so much as glance at his phone until it’s time to go home – at which point his only response to his friends’ messages is a quick </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘I’m okay’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>that he hopes will put a quick and decisive end to the conversation.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>-*-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not every day that Eddie laughs so hard it leaves his whole body buzzing with giddy energy, his chest loose and his head light, but seeing all of Richie’s hard work put together in person has that effect and then some. When Beverly stops him following the others backstage with a gentle hand to his arm, he just beams at her, ninety percent certain the tears at the corners of his eyes are visible now that the lights have come back on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He was so good,” he gushes. “He was </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>fucking good. I shouldn’t be surprised.” And he laughs again while Beverly closes her mouth around whatever she’d been about to tell him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her own grin widens, instead, becomes toothy and, Eddie thinks, appropriately bright for the occasion. Eddie follows her gaze to Ben, who’s waiting for them a few yards away with a patient smile of his own. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You should tell him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I will!” Eddie vows. It takes him another several beats to realize she might not be talking just about the show, and by that time Bev has already returned to Ben’s side and looped an arm around his waist. Eddie follows them, heart pounding, and repeats himself loudly enough that Bev and Ben both hear and turn to look at him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I will.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he gets backstage to Richie, the first thing he does is steal him from Bill, who wasn’t doing </span>
  <em>
    <span>nearly </span>
  </em>
  <span>a good enough job of squeezing the life out of him, and doesn’t seem to mind at all besides.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ouch,” Richie laughs, rubbing at his ribs through his smart black button up when Eddie finally releases him. He’s missing the floral jacket he’d been wearing on stage, that one-step-removed-from-a-Hawaiian-shirt that his manager supposedly hates because it “doesn’t photograph well,” but what the hell does he know?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s revenge for </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>ribs,” Eddie tells him. “You could get sued for not having paramedics on hand, I swear to god.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That puts an extra big smile on Richie’s face that lasts through dinner and only falters on the orange-lit sidewalk outside the diner he selected from a short list of recommendations.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even tired and yawning, he doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop </span>
  </em>
  <span>smiling. Just looks surprised when Eddie directs a pointed look at the others, particularly Bev and Ben – both of whom are paying a lot more attention than Mike, who’s still deep in animated conversation with Bill. He’s decided, over the course of two drinks, a show and a meal, that he wants to take an unplanned detour through Bill’s neck of the woods. Bill is more delighted by the minute.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For now, it’s a conversation they can continue without Richie and Eddie around to distract them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie drifts a little closer to Richie than is strictly necessary before clearing his throat to get his attention. “Do you want a ride back?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aren’t you the other way?” Richie wonders. “Bev mentioned”—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m</span>
  </em>
  <span> offering,” Eddie presses. “It’s not even that far, assuming you’re somewhere near the theater. I really don’t mind.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie stifles another yawn before tucking his chin into the painfully inadequate collar of his painfully inadequate coat. If the Losers hadn’t already poked relentless fun at both him and Bill for letting California’s warm weather ruin them, Eddie would do it all over again right now. Maybe offer him the scarf he has wrapped around his own neck, or better yet – offer to share.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So ridiculously driven to distraction is he that Richie has to be the one to get the others’ attention. He does it by draping himself across Eddie’s shoulders and whistling in his ear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks again, guys,” he says. “I’d love to keep this party alive a little longer, but the fucking wind here could blow me over if I try, so…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m gonna take him home – to his hotel,” Eddie quickly corrects. “I’m gonna take him back to his hotel.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If Richie thinks anything of the slip, he does a good job hiding it; in fact, he might </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>have noticed. He seems to nod off once or twice on the drive back; it seems fair to assume he could just be too tired to pay that much attention.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie sighs under his breath, pulling to a stop in front of the building Richie points out. It’s fancy enough to match the venue, that’s for sure. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie stretches like a big cat in the passenger seat and manages to look marginally more awake when he turns his attention back to Eddie. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, Eds, thanks for… wait, hey,” he murmurs. He lets go of his unfastened seatbelt and bodily turns to face Eddie. “What’s wrong? Did I do something?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie blinks. He has no idea what his face must have been doing to make Richie’s look like that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing,” he lies. “I was just thinking I should let you get some sleep.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie seems to consider that for a moment. “Y’know, part of my job is powering through without a lot of sleep.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Which is </span>
  <em>
    <span>bad,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eddie reminds him. “Because we’re forty – almost forty-one. Go sleep.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Or,” Richie begins, elongating the vowel, “we could finally catch something on TV together in person. Maybe raid the mini bar.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie opens his mouth to refuse on the grounds that Richie </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely </span>
  </em>
  <span>isn’t going to be able to stay awake for all of that, but then – he kind of </span>
  <em>
    <span>has – </span>
  </em>
  <span>recently, even, and Eddie is just selfish enough to think twice either way. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Does this place have valet parking?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>-*-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crossing the threshold into Richie’s hotel room feels like crossing another kind of line. It’s hardly the neutral public space recommended by so many of the websites Eddie’s searched since that tense afternoon in the coffee shop, but it </span>
  <em>
    <span>does </span>
  </em>
  <span>eliminate the problem of an unwanted audience, and that’s more important for a minor celebrity like Richie than it is for Eddie. That has to count for something, right?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What the hell – it’s not like he actually has a plan, anyway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here,” Richie calls, and Eddie has to drag himself back to reality not a moment too soon to catch the sample size Grey Goose Richie tosses at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wrinkles his nose. “I didn’t think you were serious about the bar.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I wasn’t, really. But watching you try to choke that down </span>
  <em>
    <span>would</span>
  </em>
  <span> be the ultimate cherry on top of tonight.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie fiddles with the little glass bottle, back to debating again, at least until it occurs to him that he may not be here long enough to sober up and drive back, and maybe he owes it to Richie to be completely sober for whatever he does or doesn’t wind up saying in the meantime.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Try me another night,” he apologizes as he sets it down on the nearest flat surface and then proceeds to shuck off his coat and scarf and fold them beside Richie’s.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie shrugs, unsurprised, and flops back onto his bed. This one has a TV sitting right across from it, too, but it’s a much bigger room than Eddie expected; they’d get a better view from the couch in between.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie moves to join Richie, anyway, and he spends the better part of their initial channel surfing just trying to get comfortable on top of the comforter in a room that’s too cold to be comfortable anywhere but under it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Move over,” he finally grunts at Richie, who obliges with a poorly concealed smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The covers are warm where Richie was just a moment ago. It would be easy to dwell on that, so Eddie does. There’s just a sliver of space separating them. He thinks Richie is probably thinking about that, too, judging by the way he goes silent and stops paying any attention to what he’s seeing on the screen; he abandons all pretense when he lowers the remote to the covers with the TV still stuck on some variation of ESPN. There isn’t even a game on – just commentators making predictions to fill the time between.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes close, but they open fast the next time Eddie speaks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Richie.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The one and only.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When I asked you about the Deadlights…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Which time?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When you called about naming an innocent dog after breakfast food.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie snorts, and the corners of his eyes crinkle; Eddie figures that’s a good sign.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, what if I asked again? Just… for me, this time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie rolls over to face Eddie, and suddenly their faces are almost too close, despite the fact that Eddie is still on his back, hands clasped on his chest like a vampire in its coffin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You really wanna hear about my ancient, unrequited crush on you? Without the magic, it’s just kind of…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I really wanna hear about it,” Eddie says. He drives this point home by rolling onto his side so he’s face to face with Richie. It’s every one of their childhood sleepovers all over again, except that in the here and now, they never bothered to turn off half the lights in the room, so Eddie can see the way Richie’s eyes widen in perfect, unblurry detail.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This is the part where he’s supposed to be honest, tack on a few disclaimers and watch Richie’s face fall.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can’t bring himself to do it. When Richie starts to talk, it’s like everything else goes silent, right down to the thoughts crowding Eddie’s head. In all the years they’ve been apart, he’s gotten better at telling stories. He makes them feel almost as real to Eddie as they were to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“…and I think it was probably your idea, like sometimes I just </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew </span>
  </em>
  <span>things without actually seeing them. Just enough to be able to ‘act the scene,’ which is good because can </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>imagine suddenly finding yourself standing on a sales floor watching </span>
  <em>
    <span>me </span>
  </em>
  <span>argue with some salesperson about the price of a pair of bikes we both could’ve afforded as it was?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie laughs, his expression distant. He’s propped himself up on one elbow and is using his free hand to fiddle with his glasses, but in a second he could be wildly gesturing to illustrate the way Eddie argues – which is </span>
  <em>
    <span>well, </span>
  </em>
  <span>obviously. He must have – or </span>
  <em>
    <span>would </span>
  </em>
  <span>have, or still </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span> win that argument.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You tried to pick helmets out for both of us, too, but I wanted this really bright one, like – multicolored… I think the clerk called it colorblock. You said it was the kind of thing people who weren’t actually alive in the 80s like to call ‘80s fashion.’ Which is true.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How’d it look?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie grins at him. “You said, and I quote, ‘Congratulations on being the only middle-aged man who can pull that off.’”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie grins back. “Now I know you’re lying.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You did! I was gonna try to talk you into getting this sleek black one that didn’t match the bike – </span>
  <em>
    <span>any, </span>
  </em>
  <span>like, literal bicycle – at all, but the whole scene changed the second I noticed it, so…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you can pull off colorblock, I could pull off a cool helmet – and a leather jacket.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t have to see the future to know that,” Richie agrees. “I bet Bev wouldn’t mind hooking you up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll just ask her for something that screams ‘midlife crisis.’”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie whistles. “Careful, you might start a trend.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pauses, then, and settles back onto the little mountain of pillows. He raps his knuckles against his forehead as the tiredness seeps back into the corners of his expression. “Heard enough yet? ‘Cause I’ve got like… hours and hours of someone else’s memories knocking around in here if you’re really that bored.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t ask because I was bored,” Eddie tells him. “I just… wanted to make sense of it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>his, </span>
  </em>
  <span>too, now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, if you have any luck with that, let me know,” Richie chuckles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie looks down at his bare ring finger and steels himself to ask one of the questions that have been nagging at him since story one. Since long before that, too. “Did you see any futures where I wasn’t… where it was unrequited?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I woke up in that one,” Richie says wistfully. His smile turns apologetic. “It’s okay. I’d rather have this than be living in the fuckin’ Matrix. This is real.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, it is,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eddie thinks as loudly as he can. Richie’s lips form a little ‘O’ when Eddie reaches up to touch his cheek – the one that isn’t half-buried in a down pillow. He must not have been kidding about sweating on stage or backstage; his skin is clammy, less conducive to delicate stroking than it is to clinging, which probably does nothing to disguise Eddie’s trembling.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somewhere behind them, something tumbles into the space between the headboard and the mattress; they both jump at the sound, but neither of them moves to dig whatever it was back out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eddie?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie looks – apprehensive, Eddie thinks. Nervous. Like he doesn’t know whether to bolt or stay.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I”—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t”—Richie swallows mechanically when his voice comes out sounding raspy. “You don’t – you shouldn’t – you can’t just force it to”—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If I – if I tell you you can get whatever idea you want about it,” Eddie tries.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“No,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eds,” Richie croaks. “Eddie, what I </span>
  <em>
    <span>saw</span>
  </em>
  <span> wasn’t real, but what I… it was always you for a </span>
  <em>
    <span>reason, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I thought you”—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” Eddie says, finally taking his hand away. He just can’t bring himself to be the first to move away, not with Richie’s wide, desperate eyes still fixed on him. “I know. I wouldn’t – I would have thought you were lying if you said it wasn’t me. Anyone else would’ve made less sense than you and me, Richie. Fuck, I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>trying”—</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He jumps under Richie’s touch and has to reach up just to keep it there, warm and broad and gentle. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie closes most of the distance for him, ignoring the way the pillow drags his glasses halfway up his forehead as he goes. He’s close enough that he must be able to see Eddie just fine without them, anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So Eddie kisses him, and Richie kisses back sloppy and heavy like he wouldn’t mind falling asleep doing it. His drowsiness could be contagious, the way Eddie is flooded with warmth that melts him so he fits against Richie just right. He doesn’t even know which of them breaks the kiss, just that he sees Richie looking like he could cry, dazed with his lips kissed red and parted for air.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you see this coming?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before Richie can answer, Eddie kisses him again, kisses his throat and reaches behind Richie to cradle his head when he tilts it back for him. Just in case he </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>see this in his big Deadlights time travel tour and just hadn’t gotten to that yet. Eddie wants there to be a surprise somewhere in the mix either way.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nh… no – would’ve known, woulda been shitting myself the second you w-walked in here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie gives Richie some space to breathe – just not so much that he can’t feel it on his own face. He waits to be disgusted by that, if not belatedly by trading saliva, but all it feels is </span>
  <em>
    <span>good. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The best any of this has ever felt. The first and only time he hasn’t worried in the back of his mind about mononucleosis and the common cold and unbrushed teeth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Does it measure up?” he worries instead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“God yes,” Richie breathes. Eddie thinks he’s wiping away an imaginary tear until he notices a few more escape after Richie’s tucked his hands back into the wrinkled fabric of Eddie’s T-shirt. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think so. I cry a lot when you – I mean, in like half of the kisses before, yeah, it’s overwhelming and I – leaving is gonna fuckin’ kill me, Eds…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then come back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What – when?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When you need another reality check,” Eddie says with a sly little grin of his own. “When you need a reminder of who wanted to kiss who first.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’d be me, actually.” Richie thumps his chest once like he’s showing off the size and strength of his own heart. “I would’ve braved the cooties just for you, Eds.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Since we were </span>
  <em>
    <span>kids?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eddie repeats, just to be sure.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie nods, cheeks pink, and Eddie feels like he’s just been handed something one thousand times more precious than he imagined. One thousand times his weight in gold, one thousand different ways this could have happened, and how fucking astronomical the odds seem anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did I scare you off?” Richie asks him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m terrified,” Eddie says, not-quite-laughter making his voice go wobbly, “but in a good way. I can handle it.” When Richie starts to wrap an arm around Eddie but stops short of actually doing it, Eddie guides him through the rest of it with a smile that was supposed to be challenging but definitely isn’t. “If you think you can handle me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“See, I think I’m supposed to say I know better,” Richie jokes, “but I don’t. And I’m sorta a handful, too, so – what? Why are you laughing? I’m trying to keep this thing light so I don’t break down crying again about how in love with you I am!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because what the fuck, you wanna keep it light but you – hah, ow, quit fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>poking – </span>
  </em>
  <span>you just set </span>
  <em>
    <span>yourself </span>
  </em>
  <span>up for a dick joke and actually didn’t make it. You’re slipping, Trashmouth.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why am </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>the romantic one here? I’m saving the dick jokes for our first date!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Eddie laughs, “got any ideas to steal from your hypothetical future self?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For jokes or dates?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Both.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie makes a pillow of his unoccupied arm and hums; Eddie can almost feel the vibration where Richie’s other arm lies heavy on him. “That’s plagiarism.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Only you would know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dates, though,” Richie considers. “There was one, ‘cept I’m not sure exactly if it was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>first…”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where’d we go?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You were visiting me in LA,” Richie says. “And I brought you to Santa Monica Pier because you said you wanted to see a beach, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>wanted Dippin’ Dots…” His eyes drift shut as he smiles. “There’s a ferris wheel there. I’d – </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve </span>
  </em>
  <span>never been on it, but a little clown void told me it’s beautiful at night. Bright lights on one side and the ocean on the other.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie closes his eyes, too. “I think we should make that one happen.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. Maybe after you come back here, when your tour’s done…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They blink at each other, quiet for a moment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So we’re really gonna do this?” Richie speaks first. “We’ll make it work? You – you want this?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Yeah, I want it, and you. And – obviously we need to talk more. About the logistics. Like – time zones, calendar dates, travel budgets, uh, things down the line, which cities we both…” He laughs to himself, nervous again. “I’m sorry, I’m getting way ahead of myself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie’s grip on him tightens a little, a weak semi-attempt to drag Eddie in close, which Eddie, or course, reciprocates. “Whatever you’re ready to talk about,” Richie mumbles sleepily. “Know how you love planning.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Rich?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mmm?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What about tonight?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie presses a tentative kiss to his forehead. “Stay here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’d like that.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>-*-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, Eds? Have you seen my phone anywhere?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie pokes his head out of the bathroom, complimentary hotel toothbrush still jutting knife-like from one corner of his mouth. Voice garbled, he says, “Didn’t you have it last night?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I must have,” Richie huffs, peeling back their – </span>
  <em>
    <span>shared, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eddie thinks giddily – covers for what must be the dozenth time and still turning up nothing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rather than further risk spitting toothpaste all over the carpet asking about it, Eddie ducks back into the bathroom and plucks his phone off the counter to call Richie. He holds it to his ear long enough to confirm that it’s ringing, then sets it back down to rinse his mouth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he turns the faucet off, he catches the scattered notes of a song trailing in from the other room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“…that you’ll make me be part of you, any way at all…”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie doesn’t recognize it, but it’s the kind of sweetly romantic tune he doesn’t hear much anymore – or even back in the 80s, with the obvious exception of Richie’s outdated taste, a by-product of sharing a house and record collection with Maggie and Wentworth Tozier.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He finds Richie with his arm buried in the space between the mattress and the headboard. Eddie doesn’t notice that the tips of his ears are red until he straightens up, phone in hand, and picks up the call. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe I left it backstage.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie talks into his own phone’s microphone. “That’s gonna start a rumor or two.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The space between Richie’s eyebrows narrows slightly. “Are you worried about that? Because as much as I’m dying to tell jokes about my real-life boyfriend – partner… main squeeze? It can wait.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie makes a noise that’s halfway between choking and laughing. “Right, you’re famous.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not ‘wear Groucho glasses as a disguise in public’ famous, but definitely famous enough for a tabloid,” Richie agrees, ending the call with a quick jab at the screen. “Eds?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie watches Eddie wander over to sit beside him on the bed and moves his hand to make room when Eddie comes a little closer than he was expecting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“…You want me to get us matching pairs of Groucho glasses?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie snort-laughs again; their shoulders brush, so he leans in and trails his lips along the line of Richie’s jaw, doing his best to start memorizing the novel sensation of stubble against his mouth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’d rather have one of those top hats with the fake beards attached.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie shivers; Eddie can feel his relieved smile against his own lips. “There he goes blowing all my first date ideas out of the water.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s what you should really be worried about,” Eddie laughs. He accepts a kiss from Richie before he breaks away to stare down at his knees. “Do you think we should tell the other Losers, though?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll want to,” Richie says slowly. “Eventually.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When is ‘eventually?’” He was hoping for some kind of timeline, a deadline, maybe a few Deadlights hints about </span>
  <em>
    <span>how. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When you’re sure </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> want to. There’s plenty of time, Eds. I mean,” Richie laughs, “I still need some just to wrap my head around getting a shot with you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I already said yes to a date, Richie. Technically that means you already scored.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This time, Richie tosses his head back to laugh, and if Eddie had had the foresight to record it he thinks he’d probably have made his own not-so-discreet ringtone out of the sound. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Which reminds him…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Holding his camera up and doing his best to ensure that he and Richie are centered in the frame, Eddie snaps several candid shots of them unshowered, bed-headed and grinning like idiots, then several more of them both smiling for and at the camera, heads knocking together, bright-eyed and in Richie’s case, giving Eddie bunny ears behind his back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s this for?” Richie wonders when Eddie finally lowers his phone back to his lap.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Call me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie looks nonplussed but does it anyway, and of course the camera roll is immediately replaced by Richie’s old Twitter photo with his name at the top. Despite having made the request himself, Eddie feels his face heat up the longer Richie stares; he doesn’t hang up until it goes to voicemail.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s a pretty old one,” he finally comments. “By social media standards, anyway.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I scrolled for a while to find it,” Eddie confirms. “I didn’t know how to ask – you know, for a </span>
  <em>
    <span>real </span>
  </em>
  <span>selfie, so I…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lots of references to my handsome visage would have worked.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie elbows him. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely </span>
  </em>
  <span>didn’t know how to do that. I’m just saying, I… it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>been </span>
  </em>
  <span>mutual, and I think the song is – is sweet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie goes from teasing to soppy in less than a second. “Well, it doesn’t fit now, so you gotta help me pick another one sometime today. Maybe while we’re out filling your phone up with enough pictures to make a whole Richie collage. You can use it as your phone wallpaper, too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Richie-and-Eddie,” Eddie corrects, absolutely soaking up the delighted-almost-to-the-point-of-tears look Richie gives him. “Maybe a few of all six of us – for the lockscreen.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’ll keep the ones of him and Richie confined to his home screen and contacts for now, and until that changes he’ll enjoy feeling like he could burst – into flames; into song; into a really long, really flowery monologue about leaps of faith and open arms.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>-*-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Richie is in the office watching cute animal videos on Instagram when he hears the jingle of keys in the lock from all the way down the hall. He leaves the page open and wheels his chair far enough back that Eddie can’t miss the scrape of plastic wheels on the plastic floor protector. He should probably vacuum in here, actually; having hardwood floors makes it a lot easier to notice the slow accumulation of dust and crumbs, especially when they crunch underfoot.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eds! Was traffic crazy or”—He stops mid-sentence when he hears something panting in the hall outside. “Eds?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then comes the more familiar sound of Eddie sitting down to take his shoes off, only it’s accompanied by cooing and soft laughter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Richie, hang on a sec – no, wait – </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie’s view of the hall is only slightly eclipsed by the little dog that scampers up to stand in the door frame. He stops with his hand on the knob and they spend a moment or two just staring at each other.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie joins the dog a second later looking awfully flustered for a guy in a nice suit and tie. (Richie still can’t believe that most of Eddie’s coworkers really do dress like that, too, and Eddie isn’t just trying to one-up them.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sunny,” Eddie sighs, kneeling to cup the dog’s face in his hands. Sunny’s tail is wagging; Eddie laughs and lets them go when they decide they’d rather be sniffing at their newest acquaintance’s legs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie joins Eddie and Sunny on the ground slowly, careful to broadcast his movements to avoid startling the animal, but he probably needn’t have bothered; Sunny interprets it as an invitation for kisses that smear Richie’s glasses with saliva and force him to make weak attempts at protecting his open, laughing mouth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She likes you,” Eddie says, laughing too. “What do you think, do I forgive her for not letting me get a camera ready first?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie finally just takes his glasses off and looks up from the vibrating bundle of brown and white fur in his arms. Even without his glasses, he thinks that nice jacket and tie might be sporting new decorations in matching colors. And maybe a drool stain or two. “Is she ours?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie takes Richie’s glasses and does his best to clean them on his own shirt before passing them back. Putting them on brings his lovestruck smile into full focus.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Happy anniversary, Richie.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie laughs into Sunny’s fur. “I love her.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I love </span>
  <em>
    <span>you,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eddie replies. “I guess I have some competition now, though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I love you both </span>
  <em>
    <span>almost </span>
  </em>
  <span>equally.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Would a kiss level the playing field?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It couldn’t hurt,” Richie sing-songs. Sunny tolerates being sandwiched between the two of them for a few seconds at most before she rockets off to explore the rest of the house, leaving a cloud of fur in her wake. Lucky for her, they were both going to have to change for dinner out, anyway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do we need to stop for food on the way back?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie snorts. “I’ve been stockpiling toys and food for weeks, Richie.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Toys, you say.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For the dog,” Eddie laughs. “We do </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>have time for that before dinner, so don’t fucking tempt me. You should’ve seen how I had to drive to get here on time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Show me again after dinner, then.” Richie sits up a little straighter. Somewhere upstairs, he can hear little claws tapping against the uncarpeted sections of floor. “Hey, do you think they’ll let us bring Sunny Side-Up into the restaurant?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I made sure – as long as we’re on the patio, but it’s nice out so – wait, Sunny </span>
  <em>
    <span>what?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sunny Side-Up. What do you think, should we try talking Bill or Mike into adopting a dog and calling it Toast?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What are we, the breakfast club for dogs?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie beams at him. “Good idea, Eds, we can lead with that!”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm not sure I'm 100% happy with this, but I wanted to get it posted real quick before I run to work! :')</p></blockquote></div></div>
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